“And you’re sure it was a woman?”
“Oh, aye. I could tell the difference.” He smiled. “Still can. She might have been a skinny wee thing, but she was a lass, all right. Dark horse, our Jack. Not like him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jack was the serious type when it came to women. Couldn’t look at one he fancied without falling in love with her. We used to tease him something cruel, and he’d go red as a beet.”
“But he’d never mentioned this girl?”
“No. Not to me. Not to any of us. And he would have done.”
“But she was new. He’d only just met her. They were getting to know each other.”
“Oh, she was new, all right. She’d been in here once, a few days before, with a young lad. I recognized her. Not so much the face as the way she moved. And there she was, back again, outside with Jack.”
“But she didn’t come in the second time?”
“No. She must have been waiting for him outside.”
“And you’re sure he never mentioned anything about a new girlfriend, someone he’d met, or talked to?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see her again?”
“No. Nor Jack.”
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Annie said.
“Aye. The police said he must have fallen off the cliff, but Jack was too careful to do owt like that. He grew up here, knew the place like the back of his hand.”
“I was just down on the beach,” Annie said. “Do you think a fall would have killed him? There’s not many rocks down there.”
“It’s hard enough if you fall all that way,” said Kilbride, “but there’s some has got away with a broken leg or two.”
“There was a theory that he might have jumped.”
“That’s even more ridiculous. Jack had everything to live for. He was a simple bloke who liked the simple pleasures. Believed in a good job well done. He’d have made a fine husband and father one day if he’d had the chance.” He shook his head. “No, there was no way Jack’d have done away with himself.”
“So what do you think happened?”
“She killed him, pure and simple.”
“Why?”
“You lot never tell the likes of us what you’re thinking, so how would I know? Maybe she didn’t need a reason. Maybe she was one of them there serial killers. But she killed him all right. He’d go anywhere with a pretty young woman, would Jack. Putty in her hands. The silly bastard was probably in love with her by the time she killed him.” He stood up. “Anyway, I don’t mean to bother you, love,” he said. “I just recognized you and I thought I’d let you know that if you are investigating what happened to Jack Grimley, for whatever reason, you can take my word for it — someone did for him.”
Annie finished her beer. “Thanks, Mr. Kilbride,” she said. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
“And, young lass?”
“Yes,” said Annie, far more flattered by that endearment than by all of Eric’s attentions.
“You seem like the determined type. When you do find out, drop by and let us know, will you? I’m here most nights.”
“Yes,” said Annie, shaking his hand. “Yes, I promise I’ll do that.” When she got back to her room, she made a note to let both Kilbride and Keith McLaren know the outcome of the investigation.
Sophia was already waiting when Banks got to the new wine bar on Market Street, where they had arranged to meet. He apologized for being five minutes late and sat down opposite her. It was quieter and far less smoky than the pubs, a much more intimate setting, with shiny round black-topped tables, each bearing a candle floating among flower petals, and chrome stools, mirrors, colorful Spanish prints and contemporary-style fittings. The place had only been open about a month, and Banks hadn’t been there before; it had been Sophia’s idea. When she had been there before, or whom with, he had no idea. The music was cool jazz vocal, and Banks recognized Madeleine Peyroux singing Dylan’s “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go.” It was a sentiment he could well share, because tomorrow Sophia was going back to London and Banks had no idea when, or if, he would see her again.
“Long day?” she said, when he had settled down.
“I’ve had better,” Banks said, rubbing his temples and thinking of the Templeton postmortem, and the talk he’d had with Kev’s distraught parents. “You?”
“A long run in the morning and a bit of work in the afternoon.”
“‘Work’ work?”
“Yes. I’ve got a five-part series on the history of the Booker Prize coming up soon, so I have to read all the winners. Well, most of them, anyway. I mean, who remembers Percy Howard Newby or James Gordon Farrell?” She put her fist to her mouth. “Yawn. You want to eat?”
“Do they do burgers and chips?”
Sophia grinned. “A man of great culinary discernment, I can tell. No, they don’t, but we might get some baked Brie and garlic and a baguette if I ask nicely. The owner’s an old pal of my dad’s.”
“It’ll have to do, then,” said Banks. “Any chance of a drink around here, too?”
“My, my, how impatient you are. You must have had a bad day.” Sophia caught the waitress’s attention and ordered Banks a large Rioja. When it came, she held her glass out for a toast: “To great ideas in the middle of the night.”
Banks smiled and they clinked glasses.
“I’ve brought you a present,” Sophia said, passing a familiar-shaped package across the table to Banks.
“Oh?”
“You can open it now.”
Banks undid the wrapping and found a CD: Burning Dorothy by Thea Gilmore. “Thanks,” he said. “I was going to buy it myself.”
“Well, now you don’t have to.”
Already he could feel himself relaxing, the stresses of the day rolling off, the gruesome images and the raw human misery receding into the background. The wine bar was a good choice, he had to admit. It was full of couples talking softly and discreetly, and the music continued in the same vein. Sophia talked about her work and Banks forgot about his. They touched briefly on politics, found they both hated Bush, Blair and the Iraq war, and moved on to Greece, which Banks loved and Sophia knew well. Both felt that Delphi was the most magical place in the world.
When the baked Brie and garlic had come and gone, toward the end of their second glass of wine, there was no one left in the place but the two of them and the staff. Their conversation meandered on through music, films, wine and family. Sophia loved the old sixties stuff and its contemporary imitators, liked films by Kurosawa, Bergman and Truffaut, she drank Amarone whenever she could afford it, and had a very large extended but close-knit family. She loved her job because it gave her a lot of free time if she arranged things properly, and she liked to spend it in Greece with her mother’s side of the family.
Banks was more than happy simply to sip his wine, listen to Sophia’s voice and watch the expressions flitting across her animated features and behind her dark eyes. Excitement one moment, a hint of sadness the next. Sometimes he looked at her mouth and remembered the kiss, the feel of her lips, though neither of them mentioned it during the evening. He was also aware of her bare shoulders, and of the soft swelling at the front of her blouse, aroused without even really thinking about it. Everything about being here now with her felt so natural that he couldn’t believe he had only known this woman for three days — and known was a gross overstatement. He still knew practically nothing about her.
The evening was winding down, their wine nearly finished. Corinne Bailey Rae, the Leeds lass, was singing “Till It Happens to You.” Sophia insisted on paying the waitress and disappeared for a few moments to the ladies’. Banks looked at the framed Spanish scenes on the walls and let the music roll over him. Sophia came back and sat down again, resting her arms on the table. Banks reached across and took her hand. Her skin was warm and soft. He felt the slight return of pressure as she accepted his touch.